Page 19 of Redemption
“Oh, hello, Hayes,” she says when she realizes why I’m hiding. She smiles at him like he’s the best thing since sliced bread, and I’m confused.
It’s been a week since what I deemed “the incident.” I didn’t have time to think about it much at the police station as I was busy trying to breathe through my panic attack, but now I realize just how friendly my mother and Hayes are. It’s a stark contrast to the relationship they had before I left—which was exactly none.
Hayes stands and hugs my mother. This has to be a parallel universe. It’s the only thing that explains it.
“MJ,” he says, his voice like ice as he lets go of my mom and turns to me.
Bruises cover the bridge of his nose and under his eyes, and I wince at the sight. I really did a number, and I feel bad about that—but also, go me, ya know?
“Hayes,” I greet in the same tone he greeted me, choosing not to mention the nose. I figure it’s a sore topic for him—no pun intended. “Who’s your friend?”
I might be the dumbest person in this room right now because no world exists where I actually want to know the answer, but it’s too late. Hayes is already turning back to the woman behind him, a smile of affection on his face. The contents of my stomach swirl, and I’m thankful there’s only a peanut butter cup in there; otherwise, it would not be pretty.
Hayes moves closer to the woman, standing beside her but not quite touching. He looks back at me and my mom and says, “This is Lily. Lily, this is MJ, and of course, you already know her mother, Abigail.”
The woman stands and stretches out her hand, and man, do I wish she had stayed sitting down. She’s tall—like model tall—and perfectly fits next to Hayes’s 6’3” frame. That peanut butter cup might be coming up after all.
Placing my hand in hers, I offer the best smile I can manage, with no teeth and my lips pressed together, before she says, “MJ, it’s so nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.”
My smile falls flat, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She’s too busy pulling her hand from mine and placing it on Hayes’s arm. My face turns stone cold as I glare at him. I hate that he’s told her about me. Did he tell her about Langston, too?
My heartbeat ticks up to a speed that is entirely too fast as I think about what the woman might know.
Hayes’s brows dip, but that’s the only indication he gives that he knows I’m upset. Before he can say anything, I push my mom towards the line and call over my shoulder, “It was nice to meet you, but we really must go. Bye.”
“Mallorie Jade—stop. What are you doing?” Mom protests as I lead her to the back of the line.
“Didn’t you say you wanted coffee?” I ask innocently.
“Well, yes, but that was very rude. That Lily is a sweet girl. You should get to know her.”
I’m sure she is—probably the perfect daughter—the one I could never be.
The fact that she seems to be dating Hayes and has my mother’s endorsement guarantees I will not be getting to know her, but I don’t tell my mom that.
She always made it known how she felt about any relationship I might have had with Hayes. So, I never told her our story. We never had that type of relationship. Plus, I hadn’t wanted to start World War III.
I need to change the subject from Lily, so I direct the conversation towards Hayes. I have so many questions.
“What was that back there with Hayes? If memory serves, you despised him before I left.”
The polite mask is back, signaling the end of that conversation before it’s even begun. I’m not getting an answer to that question, but it doesn’t keep me from prodding anyway.
“Oh, come on. Tell me.”
She picks an invisible piece of lint off her shirt and cryptically says, “People change, Mallorie Jade. People change.”
That statement would be inspirational coming from anyone else, but with her, I can’t tell if she’s talking about herself or Hayes.
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Three hours after leaving the coffee shop, I regret leaving the house today.
My solo coffee trip turned into a mother-daughter, all-day shopping spree because my mother asked nicely.
Seriously, what is going on? There have to be hidden cameras somewhere. That’s the only explanation—I’m being punked.
“What do you think about this one?” Mom asks, holding up a blazer I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing in a million years. I can’t tell her that, though, because as strange as this day has been, I have to admit she’s trying—at least for her.
